by Beth Bolden
Normally, he’d be much more decisive, but the normal structure of his mind had just been entirely decimated by Kian.
The feel of his bare skin under his fingertips, Kian’s hand stroking his cock, every single kiss, but most of all, the sheer bliss of giving in and not thinking at all.
At some point, they’d need to sit down and decide what all this meant for them, and definitely at some point, Bastian would need to reciprocate the three little words that Kian had said a few weeks before.
And, he added, he absolutely owed Kian an apology. Or ten.
But he was still enjoying not thinking, so instead, he let himself get lost in the contents of his fridge.
A few minutes passed, and Bastian heard Kian walk into the kitchen behind him.
“Cooking naked, while very sexy,” Kian said, “isn’t very safe.” Bastian turned slightly as Kian tossed him a t-shirt and his pair of briefs.
He’d put his jeans back on, but he was shirtless, and for a second, Bastian wanted to forget all about the food, and instead trace the line of every muscle, every tendon, every inch of skin. He’d wanted this for so long, and it seemed insane to be cooking instead of touching, when all they’d done for two years was cook. But, he rationed, they needed to eat. They needed to carb load, probably, because now that Kian was in his bed, Bastian had no intention of leaving it for the next twelve hours.
Tomorrow was supposed to be one of their test kitchen Sundays, but there was no pressing reason not to postpone it until later. They could sleep in. Bastian could make them breakfast and they could even eat it in bed.
But all that energy was going to need to come from somewhere.
Pasta, maybe? Bastian considered, pulling on the clothes Kian had brought him. Rice? He could make a stir-fry. He had chicken, he had lots of vegetables.
The mushrooms in particular were calling to him, and as he plucked them from the shelf, he realized just how dull his normally sharp mental acuity was tonight. He’d make risotto, with roasted wild mushrooms. Carbs and comfort food, all in one.
Kian had settled at one of the barstools and watched as Bastian pulled out the mushrooms, an onion, garlic, butter, and a clear plastic container of stock from the freezer that he dumped into a pot to thaw.
“Risotto?” Kian questioned as Bastian fetched the arborio rice from the pantry. “Are we trying to carb load?”
Bastian peeled the onion and began to dice it finely. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he asked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn’t stop smiling, it was obviously a symptom of the Kian disease that had completely overrun his immune system. “I said I thought we could do better. Better is going to require practice.”
“And you’re a perfectionist,” Kian finished for him. His hair was rumpled, and Bastian’s fingers itched. He wished he remembered exactly when he’d run them through the golden strands, the feel of them sliding through his fingers. It had all gone so quickly, once Kian had started taking his clothes off. Bastian’s mind had just flipped off, and he’d switched right onto autopilot.
It was a shock he hadn’t kissed him the first moment he’d seen him next to his front door, looking frustrated and cutely disgruntled.
“I’m a perfectionist,” Bastian agreed. I made you, didn’t I?
“I think,” Kian mused, “that this is the very first time you’ve ever cooked for me.”
Bastian was about to say that Terroir certainly counted, because Kian had eaten lots of things he’d cooked. Hundreds of dishes, probably.
Kian rolled his eyes. “And Terroir doesn’t count. That was work. This isn’t . . . work.”
It was difficult not to notice that Kian didn’t define what was going on, just that it wasn’t solely professional anymore, and since Bastian was still reeling from their earlier encounter, he thought that was okay for now. They meant something to each other, they’d crossed over that strictly platonic line, and it was fine not to understand what that looked like or was defined as right away.
The one thing Bastian did know was that now that the line had been crossed, he wasn’t nearly so restricted in what he could say.
“I wanted to, you know,” Bastian said, glancing up. Kian’s eyes on him were soft. “I’d lie awake at night and dream of inviting you here, of what I’d serve you, of what we’d do afterwards.”
“What’s that?” Kian asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bastian shot him a somewhat incredulous look. “Do you need it described to you? Because you didn’t seem to need directions earlier.”
“I meant,” Kian corrected slowly, “what would you serve me?”
“Something simple. Something delicious. Something irresistible.”
“Well yes.” Kian sounded amused. “I already assumed it would be all those things.”
In his mind, Bastian was pulling out the heavy-bottomed pot and setting it on the stove, melting a big fat pat of butter in it, and starting to sauté the onion and garlic. Instead, he was leaning against the counter, his knife forgotten on the cutting board, and staring at the man just across it. He couldn’t see his own expression, but he knew it was sappy sweet. If anyone he knew at Terroir could see him right now, they wouldn’t believe it.
He’d never acted this way with anyone in his whole life; and that made sense, because in his whole life, he’d never felt this way about anyone.
“I wanted to apologize to you, after we had that . . .” Bastian didn’t know what to call it. He didn’t want to call it an argument, because that assumed both sides had made their opinion and their feelings known. Instead he’d said something stupid and Kian had been justifiably and understandably pissed at him, and he’d shut him out.
“When you said I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted?” Kian’s stare challenged Bastian in every way, which was just one of the things he loved about him. That, on top of the apology he’d just given Kian, was definitely something he should also be saying, but he’d never told anyone but his mother that he loved them. Shouldn’t the words be given a little more gravitas than tossed casually over a kitchen counter while Bastian cooked them dinner?
“I was trying to make you angry so that you’d stop trying to change my mind,” Bastian admitted. He picked his knife back up and continued dicing his onion.
“Yeah, I figured that out. Just . . . not right away,” Kian said. “I was pretty pissed off at you.”
Bastian wanted to roll his eyes—how could Kian have ever believed that he really meant that—but then he remembered what Celeste had said to him. And it uncomfortably echoed what Kian had said to him before, after he’d started stripping all his clothes off.
Of course you get a say, you can tell me to fuck off.
They both knew Bastian was never going to tell Kian to fuck off.
He tossed the onion in, followed by the garlic, stirring around the aromatics with a wooden spoon. “You were within your rights to be pissed off,” Bastian said apologetically.
“Does this make me the person you’ve apologized to most in your whole life?” Kian wondered.
Bastian laughed; he really couldn’t help it. “Other than my mother, definitely,” he said.
“Not to Luc?” Kian questioned so innocently, Bastian might have actually believed it if he hadn’t witnessed just how annoyed Kian had been over his ex-lover.
“I never felt the need to apologize to Luc,” Bastian said as he stirred in the rice, letting it toast in the butter, “because the only thing I ever did to him was make the mistake of sleeping with him.
“I meant it, you know. You’re nothing like Luc,” Bastian continued steadily, even though he was quaking inside. Kian had helped tear some of his walls down, but the foundations were so solidly well-established, it was going to take more than an incredible orgasm to demolish them entirely.
“I believed you,” Kian said. “I believed you even more when we came back to Terroir and you promoted Xander.”
It was hardly the worst decision Bastian had ever made—though it
would probably make the top ten—but Kian kept bringing it up, like it still stung. Or maybe he was fishing for the job, still.
It was a risk, but Bastian had to ask, had to know. “Is that why you came here? To convince me to give you sous chef?”
Kian looked shocked, like he couldn’t quite believe the question for a second, and Bastian braced for the worst, and opened his mouth to apologize but shut it again. Kian got up from the barstool, sauntered around the counter, casual but so purposeful, and crowded right into Bastian’s space. Putting a hand on Bastian’s shoulder, he pulled him in even closer, and kissed him.
It was still new enough, still fresh enough, that each and every kiss felt revelatory. He could do this now, it was allowed, and not only that fact blew his mind, but the passion Kian poured into the kiss finished off the rest of it.
Kian released him and Bastian nearly staggered backwards. He tried grabbing for Kian—because one of those kisses would never be enough—but he’d already gone back to his seat.
“That’s why I’m here,” Kian said steadily. “I’m not here to get a job. If I want a job, and I deserve a job, we’ll talk about it. But it’ll be separate from this, and preferably at the restaurant.”
Bastian was speechless, and a little flabbergasted that Kian wasn’t more speechless. “Why not here?” he asked and was embarrassingly aware of how stupid he sounded.
As he shrugged, Kian’s tough exterior wavered enough that Bastian could see what the charade was costing him. “Because of that,” Kian said firmly. “Here is for that, and a whole lot more, I hope, and the restaurant is for work. They need to stay separate.”
“I’m glad you think so.” And Bastian was. He didn’t want to be the one to dictate the terms of their relationship, because he’d already done such a shitty job so far—and the perfectionist in him was more than a little humiliated by all that failure.
“Why didn’t we do this a year ago?” he asked, checking the mushrooms that were roasting in the oven. Then he walked over to the wine fridge and selected a nice white, opening it with a few economical movements. He deglazed the pan and then pulled down two wine glasses, pouring them each a glass.
“We weren’t ready,” Kian said, swirling his wine like an expert with the sexiest twist of his fingers. There were a few very good reasons to actually finish dinner. One, he’d never actually stopped cooking to have sex before, and doing so now would set a dangerous precedent. Two, they were absolutely going to need the energy, and once they went to bed, Bastian had no intention of leaving it anytime soon.
“I was definitely ready,” Bastian argued.
Kian rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about your dick.”
Bastian’s hand, stirring another ladleful of broth into the risotto, stilled. “If you say that again, you’re never going to eat this meal.”
“What am I going to eat instead?” Kian asked slyly, the curl of his upper lip nearly irresistible. How had Bastian ever resisted him in the first place? He couldn’t even remember; the memories of his willpower obliterated by Kian’s skin and his cock and his hands. The naughty gleam in his blue eyes.
“We,” Bastian argued, “are going to sit down and eat this risotto like civilized people, then we’re going to go to bed.” He paused. “And then we aren’t going to be civilized at all. So behave yourself before I drag you off to the bedroom like a caveman with a particularly tasty carcass.”
Kian leaned forward and licked his lips. “Is that a promise?”
Chapter Nine
At Terroir, a promise was beyond solid, it was ironclad.
In Bastian’s kitchen, it turned out that a promise was just as substantial, something that Kian had absolutely been counting on.
He’d long since recovered from his earlier orgasm, and while he might be younger than Bastian, Kian had definitely seen the outline of Bastian’s hard cock in his briefs. All it had taken was one very hot kiss, and a little dirty talk, and he was more than ready to go.
Since Kian was too, there seemed very little point in finishing this food exercise.
“Is that a promise?” Kian asked, licking his lips as seductively as he could get away with. Truthfully, he didn’t know what the limit even was; or even what they were really doing here. He’d set the most basic of boundaries: sex in this house, work at Terroir. That had felt like the most Bastian was able to tolerate. Kian could tell he was trying, but him pulling down even those boundaries had unmoored the man he loved.
Probably because Bastian fucking adored boundaries.
Bastian set the wooden spoon onto the counter next to the stove and flipped off the gas on the stove.
“Come over here, and see,” Bastian challenged.
Kian loved that; they challenged each other like this, just the way they challenged each other in the kitchen. He’d never imagined meeting someone who could face him in every aspect of his life, and then he’d met Bastian and couldn’t believe he’d ever find anyone else who fit that particular set of criteria so perfectly, and so effortlessly.
They were perfect for each other. Someday, Kian thought, as he took a lazy sip of wine, eyeing Bastian over the top of his glass, they would talk about that, but for now, this was enough.
This was more than enough.
“You drive me insane,” Bastian ground out, and yeah, that was definitely mutual. His biceps bulged in his t-shirt as he clenched his fists around the edge of the marble countertop.
“You sound surprised by this,” Kian pointed out. Had he really believed that all he had to do was ask once, and Kian would just fall to his knees?
Probably, yes. Frankly, it was taking a lot of self-control to not do just that. But Kian had come here, tonight, to make a point, and that point had a much wider significance than merely breaking down Bastian’s argument against them hooking up.
If he crawled over there now, the very first time Bastian asked, it would only emphasize that Bastian was as in charge here as he was at Terroir, and that wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t have the upper hand everywhere; as much as Kian loved him, he knew Bastian would become insufferable.
“Surprised that you’re secretly a fantastic sexual tease?” Bastian laughed with dry amusement. “It’s a good sort of surprise.”
No doubt Bastian had figured he was young and therefore inexperienced and couldn’t really keep up. He was right about the first two, but Kian had zero intention of fulfilling the last prediction.
“Why don’t you come here?” Kian said.
“No orders to crawl?”
“If I wanted you on your knees again, I would’ve asked for that.” Kian continued to sip his wine, the alcohol brewing in his stomach alongside a very healthy dose of lust.
He never wanted Bastian to stop looking at him like that—like he was an angel and a god and a very naughty boy who needed to be spanked.
“How about on my feet?” Bastian asked, skirting around the corner, and tugging Kian’s barstool so it swiveled around. Kian set his glass on the counter and was very aware his fingers were trembling. He smoothed the fabric down Bastian’s shoulders, reveling in the fact that he was allowed to touch now, after so much time fighting down the inclination.
Bastian trailed fingers down his thigh to his calf and then lower, to his bare foot. He picked up and tucked Kian’s leg around his waist. “I think,” he said steadily, even as the heat in his eyes lit them both on fire, “it’s time we go to the bedroom. What do you think?”
Kian moved his other leg to mirror the first, gasping as Bastian pulled him tight against him, their dicks, with too many layers of clothing in between, brushing together.
Later, he’d think with triumph that Bastian had asked him, not merely demanded or even assumed. He’d asked. It was hard to even think straight, not with Bastian looking at him with all that scorching purpose, but it was enough for Kian to tilt his head back and let himself be kissed again.
It was the first kiss Bastian had initiated since their first, and the heat from it
scorched Kian, pulling him in so deep that he barely even noticed as Bastian tucked a hand under his ass and lifted him off the barstool.
He carried him all the way to the bedroom, and Kian got a fleeting impression of an impressive bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, covered with dark partly translucent black shades, and a huge bed with a plain navy quilt, before he was deposited on it.
“Do you know, I’ve never once stopped cooking to have sex?” Bastian asked, breathing heavily, but not, Kian didn’t think, from carrying him. Probably from the kiss which had spun out and out until they were both breathless.
Kian wasn’t surprised by his confession. “I guess you haven’t had really good sex, then,” Kian theorized.
Normally, Bastian would no doubt be offended by the suggestion that he was less than brilliant at everything he attempted. But tonight, he just sat back on his heels and contemplated this statement. “I think you might be right,” Bastian finally admitted. “What about you?”
“I have a feeling it’s about to happen,” Kian said, reaching up and pulling back against him. “I want you to fuck me.”
Bastian looked surprised. Kian supposed that made sense. He’d been taking charge of every aspect of this encounter, and now it looked like he was giving away control. Kian would have assumed Bastian had more of a progressive opinion of sexual politics, but obviously not.
“What,” Kian said, “just because I want your cock in my ass, like I’ve been fantasizing about for two fucking years, that makes me the weak one? The subservient one?”
For a second, Bastian looked even more shocked. Then he slowly started to smile. “Goddamn it, you are fucking perfect,” he said, leaning down and kissing him thoroughly. He broke away only to say, “I would be fucking privileged to fuck you.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Kian asked.
Bastian leaned back again and stripped off his shirt. Kian trembled inside at having so much of Bastian revealed to him. He was powerfully built, with wide shoulders, impressive arms, and a flat, lightly rippled stomach and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his black briefs.